


Pain Told Love

by Gloomier



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Way of Kings Fusion, Dwarven Gender Identity, Fluff, Genderfluid Character, Light Angst, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 06:20:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13653219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gloomier/pseuds/Gloomier
Summary: Bandobras ponders whether being a Herald is truly a gift, or a curse meant to drive him to insanity. Of course, the merits of being a warrior of light are not the only things on the Hobbit's mind.





	Pain Told Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [We're Dancing with the Demons In Our Minds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780740) by [C_RIE_ativity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/C_RIE_ativity/pseuds/C_RIE_ativity). 



> This is a ficlet based on [C-rie-ativity's](https://harmless-as-meteors.tumblr.com/) (Coming Soon) Way of Kings/Middle Earth au, staring a rarepair I never thought I needed. I've been enamored by the au ever since it was mentioned, and I love the rarepair even more.
> 
> [My Tumblr](https://tea-blitz.tumblr.com/)

_And even if you don't go, and even if you never know_  
_And even if you hide away and always stay home_  
_You gotta make a friend of pain_ _  
_ ‘Cause hurricanes make flowers grow

_~_

 

For all that Bandobras “The Bullroarer” Took, Dustbringer, Patron of the Brave and Obedient, respected and upheld what it meant to be a Herald, some days he felt it was more of a curse rather than a divine gift.

Bullroarer sits on top of his hill, puffing at his pipe and blowing smoke rings, thinking about just that. His eyes watch the South-Eastern horizon—despite the fact that the rolling hills of the Shire obscure it—as he gently rubs at his clothed thigh just above the knee, where his false leg meets the stump of his leg. His fingers trace the runes and designs, that had been lovingly carved into the wood of it, through his trousers. With each pass of his fingers, Bandobras remembers every moment he’s shared with his One: Durin the Deathless, Elsecaller, Patron of the Wise and Careful, one of the seven fathers first created by the Vala Mahal.

Durin had been killed fighting the darkness that the Herald order was sworn to fight, and in another few decades or so it will have been a century since Bandobras had last seen the Dwarf.

This was nothing new, of course, Heralds lived, died, and lived (to escape). It was an infinite loop for them, and though the Hobbit had accepted it, that doesn’t mean he likes it. Not having Durin here with him makes Bandobras anxious, like another part of him had been cut off. They had been together for centuries, fighting side by side, and bearing each other’s suffering after one of them had fallen in battle—only to be revived to succumb to even more torture, albeit a physical manifestation of their suffering—eventually escaping to reunite.

The only problem was: because of Durin’s dratted faulty reincarnation, the Dwarf never ended up reincarnating in Evil’s grasp, where they might have been tortured until they were able to escape. Bandrobras wasn’t sure why, or even how, it happened, only that it did.

When Durin the Deathless fell in battle, they would always reincarnate as a babe, and far away from where ever they had fallen.

It was quite troublesome, he had to wait for Durin to return to their old self before the Dwarf would travel from where ever they had ended up and back to Bandobras. Although, Bullroarer couldn’t deny that it was always exciting to see how Durin changed, the Dwarf often came home as male, female, or something as equally fantastic—but no less beautiful nor lacking in personality.

His Dwarf got a lot of ribbing from the other Heralds about their faulty reincarnation, and even Bandobras got his own ribbing in, but the fact of the matter is: he’s infinitely happy that Durin was never sent to Mordor upon death. Perhaps it’s selfish of Bullroarer to think it, but he would rather suffer in his One’s stead; even if that meant that it would take time for Durin to re-live growing up, for as long as it took to completely rid the world of darkness.

Bandobras takes one final long drag of his pipe and slowly exhales the smoke. This time the smoke rushes up like a snake in the wind rather than drifting away in a few perfect smoke rings, all thanks to his maudlin thoughts. He gently taps the ashes out of his pipe and into the little clay ashtray—that one of his children had made decades ago—and begins the slow process of standing up. His false leg makes it a little more difficult, yes, but the fact that his beloved Dwarf had taken the time and care to craft such a useful thing—it even bended at the knee and ankle; what an amazing Dwarvish marvel—well Bullroarer wouldn’t have faired well without it.

Heralds might be immortal, but they couldn’t regrow lost limbs!

He stands there for an extra moment before turning to head down the hill, eyes trained to the ground, watching for that troublesome rock he hasn’t tried to remove in all the years he’s lived in the Shire, though he hems and haws about it all the time, something that amuses Durin to no end.

Despite searching for the very same rock, Bullroarer gets tripped up by it anyway. The wooden toes on his fake leg get caught on it, and before he knows it he’s falling to the ground, until he’s not. Strong arms keep him from tumbling the rest of the way down the hill.

“I would be happy to remove that rock for you,” Bandrodras’ saviour says, making no attempt to mask their amusement.

It takes a moment for Bullroarer to recognize the voice—while its pitch always varies, the fondness in the Dwarf’s tone is always resolute—but when he does, the ashtray and the pipe fall from Bandbras’ hands to the grass, rolling down the remainder of the hill, as he wraps himself around Durin.

“You’ll do no such thing.” Bandobras says into Durin’s neck; his face buried at the juncture, close enough for the Dwarf’s beard to rub against his face. “It gives our home a little more personality.”

“I would appreciate it if the personality didn’t bust their one good leg.” Durin chortles back, holding Bandobras tightly to their chest.

“What are you this time, if I may ask?”

“Male, my love, both in body and mind.”

Bullroarer detaches himself from Durin’s neck, grinning at his husband. “Instead of removing that rock, how about you remove my clothes?”

Durin snorts but does not protest in the least as he sweeps Bandobras off his feet, bridal style, and carries him inside the smial.


End file.
